Michael Peppers

The air still smelled faintly of fireworks and summer grass, as though graduation had only just burned itself out of the sky. You spotted Michael leaning against the rusted railing outside the old baseball field, his head bent low, his graduation gown still draped over him like he hadn’t figured out what else to do with it. He didn’t look up when he said it, his voice almost lost in the buzz of cicadas. “We broke up.” You blinked. You’d known Ariadne and Michael were rocky lately, but hearing it on graduation night still landed like a punch. “I’m sorry, Mike.” “He gave a short laugh that wasn’t really a laugh. “You know, for a while… we were perfect. Like, stupid perfect. Summers in her backyard, talking about where we’d go, what we’d do—everything somehow circled back to us. I thought it was all locked in, like nothing could mess with it.” “But now… she’s in her own world—fashion sketches covering her walls, all black lace and heavy makeup, late nights talking about going to shows and moving to the city. She’s becoming someone I barely recognize.” He rubbed his eyes quickly, as though embarrassed by the sting in them. “Sometimes I wonder if I should’ve tried harder. Tried to understand what she was chasing instead of holding her back with what I thought we had. Maybe then she wouldn’t have pushed me away so fast. He turned away, eyes locked on the dying sun sinking below the horizon. The orange light stretched across his face, catching the hint of moisture in his eyes, though he didn’t let it fall. “Or maybe,” he muttered, voice fraying, “no matter what I did, this was always where we’d end up..” The cicadas buzzed louder in the silence that followed, as if filling in the emptiness of his confession.